


Drowning in the Blues

by Plainxte



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Multi, Overthinking, Pining, RPF, Regret, Sort Of, Time Travel Fix-It, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte
Summary: Back then, he had panicked. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, and having had more than enough time to think it through, he was angry at himself for having bailed out. He loved Freddie. That he had always known. Why had it been so difficult to acknowledge that? Why couldn't he just have stayed?What if you had the chance to fix something you had regretted for almost fifty years? What if there was a question that you'd wished you'd answered differently, and you suddenly got the opportunity to do so? What if you had the chance to go back and change things?On grief and time, love and friendship, and second chancesNovember 2019, May 1974





	1. Chapter 1

Grief was a funny thing, he thought. Maybe it was possible to learn to live with it, even though why anyone would ever choose to do so, he couldn't imagine. But even after years, after decades, even after almost twenty-eight years, grief could still catch you unawares. It would hit you unannounced and sneak up on you. Maybe those horrible sudden attacks of raw grief became fewer as time went by, but it still didn't make the knife of it blunter when it suddenly twisted inside you again. How could anyone get used to that? Why would anyone want to?

When the grief and loss hit him these days, somehow the worst thing was that it did happen so much less frequently than before. Because he would rather have chopped off his right hand than forget. Would have done anything rather than forget.

Still, realising that didn't make the grief any easier to deal with. And it definitely didn't help with the game of what-if. He'd always prided himself on not wasting time on useless imaginings, he had never liked to dwell on what might have been, wanting to focus on reality, on what was happening, and how to change it. But when it came to this grief, he was as helpless to resist as he always had been. And the what-ifs kept returning. 

What if he had answered him differently, that night?

What if it had changed how things turned out?

Would they still have been successful? What about his family? Would he still have one, at all?

What if it wouldn't have made a difference, in the long run?

But most of that was beside the point. Idle wondering. In the end, the only question, the only what-if that was important, the one that kept returning, was: what if he were still alive? 

What if he had answered differently when Freddie asked him to stay with him, that night in May at the hospital? In the spring of 1974, when they had been in America with Mott the Hoople and had to cut the tour short; when Brian, so ill with hepatitis, had been rushed into intensive care straight from the airport, and when they all had been so frightened for him? When John's eyes held so much pain that he couldn't bring himself to meet them (there was only one other time he had seen John looking like that, and the grief threatened to swallow him once more as he thought of that day)? When Freddie's eyes, for that matter, had been opaque pools of darkness that he couldn't read? When no one, certainly not the doctors, could tell them what to expect, what would happen, or whether Brian would even survive?

What if he had said yes?

Would it have changed their future?

There were so many things they just didn't talk about, not then, not ever.

Following the ambulance to the hospital that day, sick with worry for Brian and with tiredness from that worry and the tour, he had been planning to call Jo as soon as he had the chance. He already knew, by then, that it was a bad idea, for both of them, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He would go ignoring what a bad idea it was for several years more. But that day, he had had a vague idea of trying to find oblivion for a while, trying to get away from the fear, from Fred and John's eyes, from Brian's parents, from Brian's own unresponsive, yellowish face, the smell of the hospital and of death. 

Freddie, of course, was living with Mary at that point. He was wrapped up in her, building a home with her. That was the way it was, that was the way it had been for years already. But that night, after the long flight, and after having been so scared for so long, things were not as they usually were.

And Fred asked him to stay with him that night. To not leave him alone with the fear.

And like the coward that he was, he had said he had to go meet Jo. (That was a lie. He hadn't had the chance to call her yet.) He made a quick exit, after that. Unsure of what Fred was asking him, unsure of where it would lead, and scared, too, if he were honest.

Of course, they had always been close, he and Fred. They'd become the best of friends very quickly after they met, liking each other's company immensely, never short of things to talk or laugh about. But the tension between them had always been there, too. And that night, it had been thick enough to cut with a knife. The tension of what if – what if he were to lean a little closer, no, a little closer still, or what if he were to turn his head just so, just enough to brush his lips against Fred's cheek? Or what if...? 

Back then, he had panicked. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, and having had more than enough time to think it through, he was angry at himself for having bailed out. He loved Freddie. That he had always known. Why had it been so difficult to acknowledge that? Why couldn't he just have stayed? 

Times had changed, of course, since then. Privately, he thought that Fred had played a big part in bringing that change about. And these days, he had been living with the grief and the regret for far too long to judge his twenty-something self fairly. But what if he had just said yes…?

Things had been shifting between them, between all of them, though. What seemed simple and easy back in '69, when they first met, was no longer so in '74. The stakes were higher, and they had more to lose. It wasn't just the worry over Brian either; the knowledge that they were starting to run out of time and out of opportunities was getting more and more difficult to ignore. That created tensions between them of a completely different kind. When they were crowded into overpopulated flatshares in and around Kensington, so poor there was barely money for food, they also felt that anything was possible; anything could happen. But five years later – well, they were still poor. But the knowledge that things couldn't go on like that for long was catching up on them.

So things were changing. But at that moment, it seemed as though it might all suddenly come to a horrible, crashing end, with Brian so ill and looking worse by the day, they were turning back to each other for comfort.

But after that night, after that question, and after that answer, things were never quite the same between them again. They were still best mates – always that – but that particular tension, the feeling of what if, was never there again so clearly.

Objectively speaking, of course, these days, he was happy. No reasonable person could ask for anything more. He had everything he could possibly want; definitely more than enough money; he was happily married (he was amazed, some days, by how easily they still got along, Sarina and him), and he even got to play in front of a live audience – no, really, not just an audience, but massive crowds – now and again. To want anything more would be madness. To want for anything to be different would be foolishness. Wouldn't it?

But what if...

He turned to look out of the window.

"You look like you're a million miles away," Sarina said, coming in with a mug of steaming tea in her hand.

"Oh, just the usual. Thinking about Fred. What if."

Sarina nodded, understanding. She had most probably been expecting for this to come up, it usually did, this time of year, the closer it got to the end of November.

"So if you did have the chance to change things, if you had the chance to answer him differently, would you do it?" she asked, looking at him curiously, sitting down on the sofa.

"Well, it's not like I'll ever find out. But yes, I'd like to think I would. I'd like to find out what would happen. Why not? I already know what happened when I told him no."

"And what if it all backfired? If you got bitter?"

"That's the problem, isn't it," he said. "What if all of this, everything that did actually happen, was somehow for the best anyway? It's just I can't really believe that. If I could've made a difference somehow. If I could have stopped him from drifting away…"

He turned back to the window, looking out at the wind-blown trees in the garden.

Brian handled the grief better; differently, anyway, and these days, anyhow. He was more vocal about it. He wrote books, gave interviews, even Instagrammed about it all, and it seemed to work for him. Well, at least Brian was able to function. But he couldn't do that. Not like that. He couldn't share all of his feelings about his what-ifs with the whole world. And John? Well, that was a what-if all of its own. 

He sighed. He really was happy, and content, he was, and he had all he could possibly wish for, but when the grief twisted its knife inside him, he thought he would give everything up, everything, just to talk to his what-ifs once more. Or, actually, to play with them once more. Just once more… what if that were possible? What would he do?

Later that week, still lost in his musings, he went to a check-up at his doctor's. Just a regular yearly thing, nothing to worry about, not really. There were a couple of things he had to keep an eye on – he supposed it was inevitable at this point – a couple of things he perhaps ought to ask about. Sarina came with him in the car, and then drove on to a meeting of her own.

"Take care, you," she called as they changed drivers, and she was getting back into the car. "I love you, remember that, yeah? It's all going to be okay."

"Love you," he said in return, smiling, shutting the car door for her. And then, as he walked towards the entrance, he was hit by a wave of... dizziness? Regret? More grief and loss? Something like that; a bit of everything and not quite any of those things. Suddenly, he felt as though he should have said something more, something so she'd know... know what? She already knew everything he had to say anyway, he thought, leaning on the back of a bench at the entrance of the hospital, waiting for the spell to pass. He had probably just got up too quickly, that must be it. And, well, he was just on his way to the doctor's anyway; if these spells (he hadn't told Sarina, but they were getting more frequent) were something real, something to actually worry about, he'd hear about it soon enough, wouldn't he?

Eventually he was able to let go of the bench and make his way inside, on slightly unstable legs. The hospital was bland, sterile and neutral, with off-white institutional walls, modern, efficient lighting and squeaky-clean floors, and nurses in scrubs hurrying to and fro. Institutional, sterile, modern, and anonymous; a far cry, really, from that in comparison dingy Seventies hospital that he had lately been revisiting too often in his thoughts.

But then, just as he'd reached his destination on the fourth floor, and reassured himself that everything was going to be fine, the dizziness returned, worse than before. The feeling of inescapable sadness washed over him; it was getting difficult to breathe, and he found himself stumbling, trying to catch hold of something, anything, to keep upright, at least.

"Mr Taylor! Mr Taylor!" he heard from somewhere behind him; it must be his doctor, worried. Or a nurse; yes, that must be it. A pair of legs clad in dark blue scrubs and sensible shoes came up to him, hurrying, stopping next to him. "Do you need to sit down, Mr Taylor?" 

Or was it someone else, someone else's voice after all? It was as if he could hear someone there, someone familiar… The room swam, the voice receded; the dizziness kept getting worse; and suddenly it seemed he couldn't see the corridor clearly anymore. He slumped against the wall, finally, and closed his eyes. Christ, it had never been this bad before. 

Everything faded; and then it was as though the concerned voice came back, but it had changed: it was just as worried as before, but somehow it was more urgent in tone.

"Mister? Are you all right? Mister? Can you open your eyes?"

_Mister_, he noted; this must be someone else than the nurse just now.

And then, another voice from further on.

"We'll just have to wait and see. He's responding to treatment so far, but I need to see the results of his liver blood tests before saying anything else. I'm sorry, but I simply can't tell you anything more about Mr May's condition just now."

His eyes finally snapped open. He stared, not understanding. 

He was still at the hospital, that much was evident, but something was different. But how could it be? The lighting... the whole corridor seemed more cramped, somehow. Greyer and less shiny. And the nurse? The one standing in front of him, now, with a concerned look on her face, reaching for his shoulder? She was wearing a light blue uniform. A dress. With an apron, an actual apron, and a cap on her head. Bloody hell. She looked as though she'd stepped out of a different time. Make-up and all, and her hair… Christ. It looked as though she'd spent a lot of time with rollers and a bottle of hairspray to get it to look like – well, like it was still 1974. 

But that was crazy.

Wasn't it?

He blinked. He lifted his hand to brush back his hair – his hair? He hadn't had to do that since, well, forever! – and stopped, staring at the hand that seemed to be missing its familiar tattoo. And that seemed to have acquired a silver bangle since the last time he'd checked.

No, hang on. Of course it wasn't – it couldn't be – things like this didn't happen. No matter how many times he'd gone over it in his head, or how many times Sarina had patiently listened to him talking about this. This must be a dream, or a hallucination, or something. It must be. Maybe he really was ill, maybe that was it. But even so. What if for just a moment you didn't think about the impossibility of it all – what if, for just a moment, you believed that this was the hospital from way back – the hospital that Brian was taken to for treatment – wouldn't that mean that somewhere over here – wouldn't that mean that the others were here too? That he would be able to see – 

And then the world crashed to a halt around him. Because there was a man in the corridor, too, standing talking to what looked like a doctor. Or the way doctors used to look. A man with black hair. Rather long hair, carefully brushed, silky, but still somehow a bit shaggy. Straightened, perhaps. White platform boots – who even wore those things anymore? – and white trousers. Were those bell bottoms? And a jacket that looked like the one that – 

The man turned towards him, and then he was looking into a pair of dark eyes, framed by delicately slanting eyebrows, high cheekbones under them; eyes he had missed desperately for almost three decades.

"Fred?" he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What if you had the chance to go back and change things, and choose a different path than you did before? What would you do?_
> 
> _On choices, the unpredictability of everything, and stepping into the unknown_
> 
> _November 2019, May 1974_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been completely blown away by the response to the first chapter of this – I could never have imagined anything like it. Thank you all so much!
> 
> I would love it if you left me a comment! Or shouted at me, or anything you like!

"What's funny is that I still don't seem to be able to let go of it," Roger said. "Even after all these years. I just keep going round and round. Well, you knew that already."

Sarina lifted her legs up onto the sofa, cradling her steaming mug.

"What do you think would have happened, then?" she asked. "If you'd said yes? Or, I suppose, if you had the chance to go back and say yes this time around?"

He smiled at that. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe nothing would have changed. Maybe Fred and I would've just spent another night playing Scrabble, or just getting pissed because we were so scared for Brian. And then gone back to the hospital the next morning and continued to worry. Or maybe we would have become... lovers, or something," he said, with a shrug.

"I don't know. And maybe Fred still would have, you know. Died. Just like he did. But what bugs me is, you know, the chance that maybe we would've stayed closer. Not just become work mates like we did. Only seeing each other when we had meetings, and when we were playing. And it's not... that was all okay, you know? The best of times. And maybe that's the only way we were able to survive, as a band, I mean. But just maybe things could've been different. I don't mean that we would've been together, like boyfriends or something, I don't think. But maybe other people wouldn't have been able to come between us. Maybe he wouldn't have drifted away from us. From me."

He didn't need to name any names. She knew exactly who he meant.

"When I think about it now, I'd give anything for him to be here. For him to be alive. I think, who cares about having made it, or about fame, or even about Queen, if only he was here, if I could just talk with him. Just be able to call him. Play with him. But I sure as hell didn't think like that back then, and he didn't, either. Making it was all we thought about, and we would've sacrificed anything for it. Well, we did, really. So even if I had the chance to do it all again, I'm not sure I'd do anything that much differently. I mean I hope I would. I hope I would say yes."

"It's just," Sarina began, slowly, still warming her hands around the mug, "You've always told me that you couldn't have handled it if you'd never had breaks from each other. Like you said that it was fine, when you started out, to live in each others' pockets like you did, but that you wouldn't have been able to go on with it if you were around them all hours of the day, for all those years."

"Yeah," he said. "That's what we always said. That's what we all thought. But I don't know. I just wonder, you know? Well, not Bri. He and I would've killed each other by now if we, I don't know, still lived together or something." He laughed at the absurdity of the thought. As much as they loved each other, they still drove each other crazy if they weren't careful.

Sarina just looked thoughtful.

"You think it would be different if it was Freddie?" she asked.

"Well, maybe not. Probably not. But I still can't let it go. I keep thinking that everything changed so much after that night, and maybe it wouldn't have needed to. He wouldn't have needed to get ill. Oh, I'm sorry, going on about this again. It doesn't matter really. It's old stuff. Nothing I can do about it. Just the same old game of what-if."

She looked at him, frowning.

"I don't know. There might be something in it. Do you think it's just the time of year, or is it something else that's bothering you?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's… well, there's been all those stories of weird things happening lately. Haven't you seen them? People recovering from illnesses saying they thought they went back in time when they were unconscious. Who knows," she shrugged.

He barked a laugh. "Well, if that happens, I'll let you know," he said, shaking his head. "But you might just as well say people are having weird experiences because of, I don't know, sunspots or whatever. I don't believe it."

"Well, yeah," she said, giving up whatever train of thought she had been following. "Look, Roger, don't you have that doctor's appointment this week? Should you maybe talk about this with her? That the same thoughts keep circling?"

Roger sighed. "Yeah, it's on Thursday. And yeah, I'll think about it. Maybe I will."

And maybe he should have taken it up with his doctor. Or maybe he should have listened to whatever it was that Sarina was trying to tell him. Because now, instead of idly chatting to either of them about the sheer absurdity of the idea of time travel, now he was caught in something that had to be a dream or a hallucination caused by an illness. He didn't know. The only thing that he did know was that he couldn't stop staring, and that he was completely transfixed by an impossibility.

"Rog? What is it?"

He stared, and stared. He couldn't believe his eyes. This couldn't be happening. But whatever this was, there _he_ was, standing before him. It was him. He looked so young. And he looked exactly as Roger remembered him, but he was somehow both more and less – so much more than the sick and frail man that he was when Roger last saw him (twenty-eight years ago? In seventeen years' time?), but also more than the frozen images of photos or the fixedness of recordings. The man before him wasn't someone forever and irredeemably lost; and he wasn't an icon yet either, a famous rock star, or a legend that the whole world recognised. No, the man before him was someone very much alive and real, here and now, unpredictable, unknowable; but also, someone it was possible to touch. Not a memory, worn thin at the edges, like a faded photograph, pored over far too many times. 

The way Freddie – the Freddie in front of him, Freddie Now – held his mouth, lips pursed slightly over his teeth. No photo could ever capture that exactly. He had crossed his arms loosely across his chest, across the beautiful white leaf-embroidered jacket that he had appropriated from their Kensington stall and loved to wear. His hands – his strong, beautiful hands with their square nails – the black nail varnish on his left hand was slightly chipped. That was unusual; Freddie was always so careful of his appearance. But if his hallucination had in fact taken him back to the hospital where Brian was being treated for hepatitis, then nails would've been the last thing on Freddie's mind.

His thoughts were racing out of control, that much was obvious. He was definitely not thinking clearly. This was more like babbling.

But he couldn't help noticing how thin Freddie was. How incredibly sharp his cheekbones looked, how his tight white trousers hugged his slim hips (had he really gone around all day wearing those? Apparently so, but he winced thinking about how uncomfortable they must be); and how tired his eyes looked. There was a five o'clock shadow on his face, and that opaqueness in his eyes that he remembered all too well, that came from pain and worry and made him hard to read.

Just as he remembered. He stared. It made his heart hurt; the man in front of him was so beautiful and so sad, it was so painful to look at him, and this was all so totally impossible. It _couldn't_ be that he had somehow landed back in 1974, could it?

"Roger?" Freddie repeated. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

That's exactly what it was, he wanted to say, but his voice didn't seem to be cooperating. He was still leaning against the wall, rooted against it as though it was the only thing anchoring him to any kind of sanity. Maybe it was. But in the end, that wasn't important. He gave himself a mental shake – he would figure things out later. There was only one thing to do, and everything else be damned – and pushed himself away, all but throwing himself at Freddie, not caring who was watching or what it looked like.

Freddie caught him, staggering a little under the sudden impact.

"Shh, it's okay, Rog," he said. "It's just too early, and they don't want to say anything definite yet."

Was he talking about Brian? Roger ignored that, too, for the moment –

"Twenty-eight years, Fred. Twenty-eight! I've missed you so much!" he said, voice raspy, ending in what sounded suspiciously like a sniffle.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he said, frowning. 

Oh god. That voice. His _voice_. After all these years.

"What is it? I'm right here, Rog. It's okay. And aren't you twenty-four? I mean you were the last time I checked, and it's not your birthday yet," Freddie said, with a bit of a nervous giggle; another noise he'd never thought he'd hear again.

Roger didn't respond; it felt like he couldn't get a word out. He just wrapped his arms around Freddie tighter, and buried his face in Freddie's shoulder, holding on to him, never wanting to let go again. Who cared why, or if this was real, even; the only thing that mattered was the warmth and the familiar smell of Freddie. How could he have forgotten that? The feeling of him breathing?

They stood there hugging each other, there in the dingy hospital corridor. Freddie finally detached himself, holding him at arm's length, looking enquiringly into his eyes.

"Really, dear, what is it? Can you come with me? I think John is getting worried," he said. "I mean, you said you were just going to go to buy some smokes and here you still are, talking nonsense and frightening me."

Roger closed his eyes, willing to either wake up from his strange dream, or to regain some ability to act, he didn't know which. He blinked, and found himself still looking into dark eyes, so familiar, and so strange.

He tried to clear his throat. Nothing for it, then, but to see what happened next. To act casually, whatever that meant here, wherever this was.

"Sorry. It's just," he flailed, trying to come up with something to say, something that would sound okay, or that wouldn't alarm Freddie. "It's just it's been a lot. I didn't feel like going out after all. Sorry. Do you – do you know how he is? Bri?"

Freddie was still looking at him a little strangely. "They don't know yet," he said, a little slowly. "They're waiting for his blood tests. I thought you heard the doctor just now?"

"Yes, right, sorry," Roger said, trying to brush it off. "I must be even more tired than I thought. Anyway, let's get back to John, yeah?"

Freddie let go of his shoulders.

"Are you sure you can walk? I mean we don't need another one of us getting ill just now," he said.

"Yeah, it's fine. It was just a – a spell," Roger said.

And it was true that the dizziness seemed to have gone away, and he was feeling no worse for wear than usual.

Or, actually, that wasn't quite true. He followed Freddie down the corridor, brushed his hair back from his eyes again, and noticed that strangely enough, he was actually feeling good; much less stiff than usual, and almost like he could break into a run at any time and not even worry about getting winded. Well, no complaints from him there. The bangle on his arm was a little irritating, though, but he kind of liked the white trainers he was wearing and – oh damn. Well, it was inevitable, wasn't it – he also seemed to have on a pair of bell-bottomed jeans. He was sure they weren't quite as tight as Freddie's trousers, but they weren't exactly comfortable, either. That was one fashion he hadn't missed. But if a bit of chafing was his biggest problem, he could definitely deal with it.

He ignored the rest of his sartorial issues, then, and concentrated on the man he had been grieving for so long. He wanted nothing more than to hug him again – to wrap him up in his arms once more, to keep him safe from the world, to make him promise to never leave, never listen to that bastard – to say he'd do anything, anything at all if he'd only stay. He was trying to calm himself down, to swallow the tears that kept threatening to spill over, when he found himself facing another impossibility.

Seated on a hospital bench, leafing through a magazine that he clearly wasn't concentrating on, was John. Not the shell-shocked, greying man drowning in his loss that he remembered. The man who had wanted nothing more than to get as far away as possible from Roger and Brian and everyone else, from all reminders of his sorrow. No, this John was young, shockingly so. He had long brown hair, gently curling around his face and shoulders. Definitely his early Seventies look. The steady grey eyes were red-rimmed and pained, very much so, but clear; he looked straight at Roger, enquiring.

"Everything okay?" he asked, in that soft voice of his.

Oh god. He realised again that he really didn't care what had happened, what all this actually was or how long it would last; he had missed John, too, so badly. He wondered briefly whether his seventy-year-old self was laying collapsed in a hospital somewhere, but he dismissed the thought quickly. Maybe the long years of his grief had made him rash, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care about that either just then. It felt like something in his chest was loosening; like he could breathe more freely than he had for almost thirty years. He crossed over to John, hurriedly sitting down on the bench next to him, throwing his arms around him as far as he could reach.

John made a startled little noise, but let Roger hug him.

"It's not me who's ill, you know that, don't you?" he said, but didn't seem to mind the touch.

"I found him trying to hold up the corridor wall back there, and acting oddly, frightening the nurses," Freddie said. "I hope we won't need to check him in, too. Or check his head, more likely."

"Now that would be unfortunate," John said. "But do you really think they'd be able to tell a difference from the way he usually acts?"

"There you go, no need to worry, Roger," Freddie said. "If you go mad, rest assured that no one will notice."

Roger looked up from where his face was pressing into John's hair. He had a sudden urge to stick his tongue out at Freddie, but valiantly withstood the temptation. 

"Oh, go boil your heads, both of you," he said weakly. 

He didn't mind, not really; John's eyes seemed to have lost a little of their pain, and there was even the hint of a familiar sparkle in them. How he had missed that; how he had missed these two. 

He settled back against John's side, hoping that the closeness and warmth of another body was bringing John some comfort. Freddie sat down on his other side, and he was acutely aware of his presence. They grew uncharacteristically quiet, waiting for someone to come and tell them how Brian was doing.

John went back to leafing idly through his magazine. Roger looked over his shoulder; it appeared to be filled recipes for dishes that all looked very decidedly unappetizing. No wonder John wasn't paying them much attention – but then the top of the page caught Roger's eye. It said "Issue 5 – May 1974". So it was true. Somehow, then, he had gone back in time, and back to worrying about Brian.

Oh. Oh, hell. Roger sat up suddenly, a very unwelcome thought turning his insides to ice. What if getting to have this time with the missing pieces of his heart, this stolen time that he had no right to, somehow meant that Brian wouldn't recover from his hepatitis this time? He shivered, and then shook his head, trying to dislodge the idea. Not Brian. He couldn't. Not his oldest friend. His brother, his rock, the one person in his life who was always there.

Freddie nudged his shoulder.

"Are you thinking of going weird on us again?" he asked. "Because I'd rather you gave us some warning beforehand."

"Piss off, Fred," he muttered, giving the lie to his words by leaning closer to him. They grew quiet again.

Some time later, a voice roused them.

"You're here for Mr May, aren't you?"

A nurse in uniform stood in front of them. Roger blinked, and caught himself wondering how that apron stayed on. He seemed to remember it was something that had puzzled him already back when – when he was here for the first time. There had to be something that held the apron in place, but he couldn't for the life of him figure it out. 

"I was sent to tell you that your friend is stable," she said after they had all dragged themselves more or less upright. 

"We still can't tell you much more than that, I'm afraid," she continued, holding a hand up when John was on the verge of asking her something. "I'd recommend you get some rest, come back tomorrow. There's nothing you can do for your friend just now. We'll let his family know immediately if something happens."

John sighed, defeated, his shoulders slumping.

"Can we see him?" Freddie asked, putting a comforting hand on John's shoulder.

"I suppose so, for just a moment. If you stay in the doorway and don't disturb him. He's under sedation and should be allowed to sleep," the nurse said, with a disapproving little sniff, looking at the three of them.

Roger supposed they were all looking a little bedraggled. But the nurse's disapproval also rang a sudden bell in his memory; he had got so used to being recognised wherever he went, to his appearance accepted without question (not that there was anything to object to about it these days – those days – oh, whatever), that he had all but forgotten how long hair and a couple of necklaces were enough, back in the Seventies, to cause comment or even outrage. 

The nurse showed them to what had to be Brian's room, despite looking as though she wasn't sure it was a good idea to let three disreputable musicians anywhere near her patient. They stood by the door, looking into the little room with yellow walls and harsh lighting, beeping machinery and in the middle of it all, a familiar head of dark, curly hair. 

Roger swallowed. The sight was overwhelming, and he found himself fighting the tears that were again gathering in his eyes. It seemed to bring the reality of the situation home to him in a way that nothing else had – the mop of hair that had been white, like a halo around Brian's head, for so long. This, here, was as real as anything that had ever happened to him, however impossible it seemed; and he couldn't be sure of what was going to happen from here on. His throat felt tight.

"I wish I hadn't argued with him so much. I wish I hadn't thrown those peanuts at him," John whispered.

Roger couldn't help a small grin at that, despite himself. The peanut incidents hadn't yet reached epic proportions at that point, but if John only knew. He steeled himself. John _would_ know. It would all happen. That's the way it had to be.

"That poodle will soon be fine again, you'll see," Roger said, trying to sound confident. "You'll be fighting with him again in no time."

Freddie sighed softly. "Oh Brian, dear," he said. "Do please get well soon. We're waiting for you," he said quietly.

The nurse sniffed, again, behind them. "I think it would probably be best if you left now," she said. "Let him rest, and get some sleep yourselves, too," she said, not without sympathy.

They complied, not really wanting to leave Brian, but not knowing what else to do, either. Roger was feeling nervous; if Freddie was going to ask him to stay with him, it would have to be soon. It wasn't as if he even was sure where he would go otherwise. But what would he do?

"Right," John said. "I suppose I'll be off, then. Walk to Ronnie's. Will you two be okay?"

"Yeah, we'll grab a taxi, we're good," Roger said, quickly, before Freddie had even opened his mouth. Freddie looked at him, a little surprised, but then he just nodded.

"Fine, then. See you tomorrow?" 

And with that, John turned on his heel, and set off down the corridor. 

A part of Roger wanted to tell him to wait, to not let him out of his sight, but before he could think of anything to say, John had disappeared behind a corner. He followed with Freddie, a bit slower, both men looking at each from the corner of their eyes, unsure of what would happen next.

On the way out, Roger unexpectedly caught sight of himself in a glass door leading to a stairway. His hair was a complete mess, the long strands drooping sadly, and was so strange to see himself like this: far too young, decked out in his uncomfortable trousers and loud shirt. 

But Freddie was speaking, and he turned away from his reflection.

"I don't like it any better than you do," Freddie was saying. "But it's serious, we can't ignore that. I really just want him back. I want him planning his guitar solos and absolutely refusing to negotiate about any aspect of his songs," he said, pausing and smiling at the thought. "But it looks like it will take a while. I don't know. Should we maybe be thinking about what we'd do if he, I mean…"

"No," Roger broke in, fiercely. "I won't have it. I just won't, you understand? I'm not going to live with that kind of grief anymore. I'm not losing any of you, this time around. Not Brian, not you, definitely not you, and not John either. I'm going to hold on to you all and bloody not let go, no matter what. I won't let you go, and anyone who says different won't know what hit them once I get my hands on them."

Freddie laughed, a little shakily. "You're not making much sense tonight at all, you know, dear. But no matter, if that's how you feel, I'll take it."

He paused, stopped walking and turned to look at him properly.

"Would you... I mean. Would you stay with me tonight?"

Roger stared.

"I mean, I think I'd like to have someone to talk to tonight. It's been a bit of a day and a half..." 

Freddie trailed away, looking unsure, suddenly not meeting his eyes.

This was it, then. He hesitated. This was what he had been turning over in his mind for all those years. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he croaked, and then, "yes, of course I will."

It was as though the sun had appeared from behind the clouds: Freddie's eyes cleared, and it seemed he couldn't help a smile spreading on his face, not even bothering to hide his teeth for once.

"Really? You will? Oh, thank you! I really wouldn't want to be on my own right now," Freddie said. "Mary's not at home, you know. But are you sure? You didn't have anything planned with Jo, did you?"

"No, no. I haven't had the time to call her yet. I'd like to stay with you," he said.

He was never going to live with the knife of grief again for as long as he possibly could help it.

They stepped out of the hospital doors and down on to the street, stopping in a small sheltered nook by the railing. They were very different doors, and it was a very different street from the one where he had come in to his doctor's appointment, feeling dizzy… whenever that had been, exactly. The street was mostly deserted; only a few cars drove by now and then. Distantly, Roger marvelled at the makes and the models, at the looks of them. He remembered his small old Alfa Romeo with the finicky steering; but no, hang on, he hadn't had it back then – he didn't have it yet, that must be what he meant.

He sighed. If anything, there were too many memories jostling each other in his head. It was going to be difficult to keep them in any kind of order.

It had rained earlier, and the pavement shone under the streetlights. They were alone in the warm May night, almost entirely hidden from view. Roger turned to Freddie, standing beside him, drinking in the sight of his profile.

Roger stepped closer to him and took a deep breath. There was no one in sight, no one to see what they were doing. He put his hand onto Freddie's shoulder. Time to make a decision, then.

His thoughts were whirling. There were a million what-ifs chasing one another in his mind. He could still make a run for it, and leave things as they were. But he didn't want that, did he?

What if he went through with this? Where would it lead?

What if it all went wrong? If they quarrelled, and the band failed because of it?

What if Brian didn't get better? But no, he had to. Had to.

What if they became too happy and content with the way things were, and wouldn't be able to create their songs anymore? If they never properly made it?

What if he never saw Sarina, or the rest of his family, again?

There was no way of telling.

Did he have a choice?

Hadn't he already chosen?

He shook his head to clear it a little and swallowed.

"I meant it, you know, Fred. I want to be here with you. Well, I'd rather it wasn't because Bri's ill. But I want this. I want to be with you."

Freddie was looking at him, dark eyes wide and searching.

Roger leaned closer, slowly, so that Freddie had the chance to pull away if he wanted to. He could feel Freddie's warm breath on his cheek, and he closed his eyes, suddenly terrified. He held still for a little longer, but when Freddie didn't move away, he willed himself to act, and finally closed the distance between them.

And he kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a small, very self-indulgent piece of overthinking everything. I've never written any kind of fanfiction before, so I'm not even sure where this came from. Sorry. I'd love any comments, if you feel like leaving me one!


End file.
